


Fathers and sons

by howlingmary79



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 05:12:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howlingmary79/pseuds/howlingmary79
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson's uncle dies and leaves his cottage in the country to the doctor. But the property hides ugly secrets the two friends will discover on their own skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fathers and sons

Holmes sighed as he took the bundle of letters that lay under a layer of dust. He dropped them on the table were the doctor was consuming his breakfast, causing the soft grey powder to fly all over his toasts and eggs. Watson coughed and tossed them to the floor.

"If you don't mind, Holmes, next time you decide to have a look at your mail, please do it far from my breakfast!"

"Watson, you are really impossible in the early morning!" the detective replied tiredly. He was bored and had not left his room for the entire week, smoking and laying all day on the couch.

"You should get out of here, you need fresh air. Do you want to come with me today? I have some patients to see but I am not so busy…" he suggested.

"I am not interested in old men complaining about their health…"

"That's unfair! They come to me because they need medical attention."

"Sure, whatever, Watson. Have it your way!"

Watson knew his mate needed something to keep his mind busy and he hoped he would had found a new interesting case in his mail. Since the dirty bundle was still on the floor, the doctor recollected all the sheets and letters and handed them to the detective, who was now sat by the window, looking the grey sky and people walking in the street. He noticed a telegram addressed to him, the date printed on it was of three days ago. It came from a solicitor, named Morgan Winter from Hawkesbury Upton. He had never heard of him nor of the place before. 

He would had reminded his mate the fact that, again, he had not advised him there was an important mail for him, but he let the matter drop for he was not in the good mood to argue with him. So he sat at the table and opened the telegram. There were just few words, saying that this Morgan Winter would had come to his apartment in Baker Street to talk to him about an inheritance on Wednesday afternoon, the 14th of March. So they were going to have company that afternoon. He broke the news to Holmes, who did not seem particularly interested, but accepted to join them.

The solicitor arrived at four o'clock. He was slim and tall, with cropped white hair, thin lips and piercing blue eyes; his long hands were smooth and immaculate; he was dressed in a dark grey suit and black leather shoes. His aspect denoted authority and self-confidence. He sat in the armchair in front of Watson and, after the usual exchange of pleasantries, he took out of his bag a dossier and handed it to the doctor.

"I came here to notify you your uncle Horace died one week ago in Hawkesbury Upton. He left you all his substances. He commissioned me to take you to the village and show you the property." He stated in a thin voice.

"I am sorry to inform you I have never heard of him before. My father had an older brother but I didn't know his name. I think something happened between them because he never spoke about him and when I asked him some questions, he always refused to answer me saying he was no more part of his life and I shouldn't had to be concerned about him. My father died four years ago. Maybe I saw him at the funeral but, as I said, I had never met him before and I probably wouldn't had recognized him, anyway."

The old man twist his nose and shut his lips in a sort of annoyed smirk. The doctor felt uneasy under his cold glare. He felt someway subdued by him.

"So you said my uncle has a property in Hawkesbury Upton. I bet it is a quiet place to live. Is it very far from London?" he asked then, since the man did nothing but stared at him.

"It is about three hours. By train." He replied drily.

"Is the property noteworthy?"

The solicitor made a face and answered that actually it was a magnificent property: there was a beautiful house surrounded by a wood and some other minor buildings, all encircled by a tall brick wall that separated the property from the village. Plus, there were lands and woods in the country.

Watson was surprised to hear that and he looked at Holmes with bright eyes. The detective, who had been silent since then, asked Winter what exactly was his mission and what the doctor should had to do now.

"I am staying in London for the rest of the week, if you want you can come with me when I leave on Saturday. I can show you the property and if you want you can stay for the night in the house. My mission, Mr. Holmes, was to inform Dr. Watson about his inheritance and offer him my services. That accomplished, I can leave you to your affairs. May I ask you to let me know if you are going to come to the village? I have some documents the doctor should sign, but we can do it once we are in my office." he replied in a sharp tone, clearly annoyed.

Before Watson could say anything else, he greeted them and left.

Once they were alone, they discussed the matter at their own way.

"I cannot believe you talked to him like you did. What's going on with you, Holmes?"

"Ah, please, Watson. Don't tell me you like him, because I saw how you looked him and you did not seem happy, instead rather scared by him."

"Since when my feelings for the solicitor are interesting you?"

"I am not interested in feelings, but we both did not like the man. And I was as polite as him, if polite is the right word. He did not seem interested in having a conversation with you, anyway."

"You are impossible, Holmes! I discover I own a beautiful house in the country with lands and woods and all you can do is insult the man who went to tell me on purpose from Wales?"

"Well, technically speaking, you don't own anything jet."

"I swear to you, if you don't stop to be so unnerving I would not take you with me to see the property."

"I am not leaving London."

"Are you saying I have to go alone with Winter? No way! I don't want to spent a three hours trip by train with him alone, plus all the time I will have him around while visiting the property. You have to come, Holmes!"

The detective smiled at him.

"Why this man affects you so badly?" he asked his mate softly, coming to sit near him on the couch.

"I don't know. It is just a feeling. I know you don't believe in those kind of things, but I don't know how to explain it better. That man is pure evil, his voice and his aspect, I cannot stand him. Did you see how he looked at me? I am sure he hates me…"

"I understand, Watson, don't worry about it."

"So are going to Hawkesbury Upton?" he asked.

"I need some fresh air, you said it yourself!".

Both men were just glad the tension that made them nervous the past days was fading away with this new perspective. Watson felt much better after the decision to leave the city together. He was happy to spent some time in the country, far from the grey atmosphere of London, with his detective. They sent a telegram to the solicitor and arranged things for their departure. Despite they did not trust the man, they trust each other and that was enough.

§§§

They left London on Saturday, as planned. The trip was comfortable and in three hours they reached their destination. Luckily, the solicitor was busy in checking some documents and he left the two men to their selves, quietly talking. Watson was fascinated by the landscape and tried to involve Holmes in his romantic considerations about nature without success, but he was too excited about his new adventure to notice it. 

Holmes watched his mate in amusement: he was clearly thrilled and happy like a child, his blue eyes bigger than ever and so bright, a huge smile adorning his perfectly shaven face. He had insisted on taking with them the necessary clothes for some days, saying that they could had stayed in the house as long as they needed. As they approached the little station, before the train stopped to let the passengers go in and out of the wagons, the solicitor joined them and informed them there was a cab waiting for them, because the village was a little far from the station. 

The village developed around the main road, with many little streets on either side of it. The most important buildings were located on the main street, its importance underlined by beautiful plane trees that gave life a long avenue. Even if this was just a small centre, there were many shops, a post office, a grocery store, two inns and a flower shop among them. Winter assured them they would not had regretted London, but Holmes did not seem too convinced. 

The property of Uncle Horace was situated at the end of the avenue and it was easily recognizable by the big and very tall gate adorned with lions at both sides of it. Watson was anxious to go in, and tried to see something more from the still closed gate and between the tangle of branches of the trees, but he saw very little for the house was just too far from the gate and the solid brick wall that encircled the whole property prevented him to have another view of the place. Holmes followed his friend and took both their luggage and waited for the solicitor to lead the way. 

When he turned to him, he caught the man in the act of openly watch them with an expression of disgust and disbelief, his face distorted in a smirk, his expression changing suddenly in a more polite one when he felt Holmes’ look on him. The detective understood why Watson did not want to come alone to the village with this strange man: the doctor talked about bad feelings, Holmes did not believe in such things, but surely there was something strange with the solicitor and he was glad he could support his friend in this adventure.

“The gate is closed, we have to walk a little to reach the secondary access. If you gentleman are ready, I will show you the way.” Winter explained and, without waiting an answer, he disappeared in a small path that run parallel to the wall, perpendicular to the main street. 

Holmes hurried to catch Watson, who was still in front of the main entrance, and gently guided him towards the path. 

“This way, Watson, we will have plenty of time later to explore the all property. Right now, let’s just see what Winter wants to show us. The sooner we are done with him, the sooner he will leave!”

“Why do you say so? Did he do something to upset you?”

“No, I just don’t like him. And I am glad I did not let you coming here alone with him. Something doesn’t sound right about him.” 

“Well, he certainly is not very friendly. And where the hell has he disappeared now?” 

Watson turned his head to the left and to the right but there was no sign of the man. Since Holmes was in front of him carrying their luggage with both hands, he yelled when he felt a cold hand on his shoulder gripping him fiercely and a thin voice laughing at him. 

“I am sorry if I scared you, doctor, follow me, this way, please!” 

Trough a little wooden door half hidden by dirt and climbing plants, Watson and Holmes were introduced in a garden that surely had seen better days. They could now see the house and appreciate his architecture but the solicitor quickly guided them inside trough a double wooden door with colored glass.

They were introduced in a big hall, about eleven feet large and twenty-two feet long, with three doors on the right side and two on the left; the room was coated with a dark heavy boiserie about five feet high and with an old fashioned tapestry for the rest. Two big chandeliers illuminated the space. At the end a big helical stair led to the first floor. Holmes left his and the doctor’s luggage on the floor and a servant appeared from no-where and carried them upstairs.

“I informed Wilson, the butler, of your arrival. I suppose you would like to use your uncle’s bedroom, it’s the biggest of the house, Doctor.”

“That will be fine, thank you. Where is Wilson, anyway? Can we meet him?” Watson asked.

“I would like to show you the house then you can have public relations with the personnel. You’ll pardon me if I want to make it fast…” Watson watched Holmes with a puzzled expression and the detective just shrugged his shoulders in answer.

“On the ground floor we have a dining room, first door on your left” he said pointing to the still closed door, “the sitting room, second door; here” he continued referring to the other side of the hall “we have the library, where your uncle spent most of his time; then the billiard room and the music room, where he used to play the piano. Do you play the piano too, Doctor?” he asked.

“No, I don’t play any musical instruments. My education had been more scientific, if you know what I mean.” 

The solicitor again made a face. “Oh, I see! So let me show you the rest of the house…”

“But we did not see anything jet. Can’t we have a look inside the rooms on this floor?” 

“As I said before, I don’t have much time. If you gentleman would follow me, I’ll show you the kitchen and the other service room at the floor and the bedrooms upstairs, then you can explore the place on your own!” he replied in a sharp tone. 

Watson and Holmes watched at each other, silently communicating their confusion. As soon as the solicitor had left, they could finally talk and relax. They entered in every room, admired the fine furniture and the paintings, the soft brocade curtain that filtered the external light.

They met the personnel and Wilson, the butler, who was very kind to them and seemed almost normal. He informed them he had prepared the main bedroom for the doctor, as Winter had told, and the adjoining one for the detective, that was smaller but very comfortable; the bedrooms also shared a washroom. He offered them his services and asked at what time they wanted dinner served, adding that Watson’s uncle usually had dinner at 7:00 p.m.. The doctor answered there was no need to change their habits. That accomplished, the butler left the two men alone. 

Watson felt uncomfortable, the solicitor and his strange behavior had made him nervous. The house in itself was beautiful and cozy, the bedroom was very comfortable and warm, he actually did not have to worry about anything for the butler had the control of the situation and he would had only have to ask for anything he needed and he would had have it. He lie down on the big bed and was assaulted by memories of his childhood with his brother and his father. 

He remembered his mother lying in a bed similar to the one where he was now, deathly pale with eyes closed, caressing him and then the sound of fear of his father in his ears as she went limp and strong arms taking him away from her, and the old butler caressing him and holding him close, saying he had to be strong and that his mother was in Heaven with the Angels now. 

He tried to block out the awful memories but, as hard as he fought, the more flashes of his past life he had willingly forgotten returned to him and with them the pain for his loss. When it was clear he could not escape his past, he let his tears falling and sobbed in the pillow, not wanting his mate to hear him. After a while, he felt a little better and get dressed for the dinner. 

He met Holmes in the large dining room and they had a beautiful dinner; Watson was relieved his friend was in good mood and enjoyed his conversation. They both appreciated the good food and the optimum wine. At some point, Holmes asked him about his family.

“You never talked about you father, Watson. I thought you were on bad terms with him.” Holmes asked softly.

Watson did not reply immediately and with deliberate slowness ate his last bite of meat and had a sip of wine. He rinsed his mouth and mustache with the fine napkin, then looked at his friend with a sad smile. Holmes understood he had hit a nerve and regretted his question. Watson was too sensitive and this inheritance thing has surely roused unpleasant old memories to him. When he spoke, his voice was tired. 

“My father was a good man. When my mother died he would had lost his mind if it wasn’t for us, me and my brother. I was a child and my brother was just four years older than me. We needed him and I think that saved him. He had to go on with his life because of us. I remember that, for the first two or three months after her… departure… I often cried before going to bed, complaining that I wanted my mother back, so he took me in his arms and hold me close to him, until I fell asleep. I remember him trembling slightly while comforting me.”

He paused and took another sip of wine.

“He made sure she had fresh flowers on her tomb everyday and we celebrated her birthday every year. He was so fond of her, Holmes. When he died, in his last days, I was with him and he was glad I was there. He said I summoned her to him, because I had her eyes and her sensibility. I tried to help him but, with all my medical knowledge, I could only watch him sliding away day by day. But he never complained about being in pain, he actually said he was waiting for me to come so he could leave this world and reunite with his wife. My brother arrived when it was too late. We buried him with my mother.”

He quickly wiped away the tears from his eyes. He swallowed hard and sipped from his glass again.

“I have never talked about my parents before to anyone. Losing my mother was terrible but losing my father was devastating. For some weeks I felt empty and alone, I could not find any reason to live after them. My brother stayed with me for some days then returned to his affairs and disappeared. I joined the army to feel I had a reason to go on, I was a doctor after all, and that helped.”

He glanced nervously at Holmes and he smiled to him. The detective had never seen his mate so sad and he wanted him to know he was there for him. But he did not know what to say nor how to behave, for he was not used to this situations and was embarrassed, so he simply stared at him. 

“I think I will go to bed!” Watson said then, standing up suddenly from his chair and heading for the door. 

But the very good wine he had drunk to give him courage to speak had a bad effect on his equilibrium. He swayed and almost fell. Holmes was at his side immediately and steadied him, pushing his friend’s right arm on his shoulder and supporting him with his strong arm around his middle. 

“Too much wine, Old Boy! Let me help you.” He offered and guided him to the main bedroom, where the fire was warming the room. He deposited Watson at the feet of his bed but when he was about to stand up the doctor did not release him instead he held on him trembling slightly. Holmes comforted him verbally and physically. When he thought his friend was calmer, he asked if he needed help in putting on his night dress. 

“Thank you, Holmes, I can manage. I am sorry if I acted like a fool, but… I never thought about my mother and father in a very long time and… I don’t know… ” 

Holmes gently patted his mate’s shoulder. “No need to apologize. Good night, Watson.”

“Good night Holmes.”

§§§

The Sunday morning found Watson deeply asleep in the main bedroom of the house, buried under a shell of blankets, softly snoring, his blond head merely emerging out of the softness that enveloped him. He had had a troubled night because of the wine and of the conversation with Holmes at dinner the evening before; even if he was tired, he fell asleep only three hours after he went to bed. 

He did not hear the servant who entered his room to light the fire in the early morning. When he awoke, he indulged in his safe nest for some minutes before deciding to open his eyes. Still half asleep, he spotted Holmes sitting in one of the armchairs near the window. He yawned in his direction and the detective came to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Good morning Watson! Did you sleep well?” he greeted him sheepishly.

“M’ning Holmes! What are you doing in my room?” he asked, closing his eyes again and enjoying the warm of the blankets.

“Waiting for you to wake up, Old Man! It is already 10:30 and the sun is beautiful. I thought you would like to explore a little more your property with the day light.”

“10:30! Holmes, why didn’t you call me earlier?” the doctor replied, instantly awake. 

“I thought you needed a few more hours of sleep, after your restless night.”

Watson’s expression was puzzled, he couldn’t understand what his friend was referring to. He surely had had troubles in falling asleep, but then he slept like a baby, or so he thought.

“Don’t you remember?” Holmes asked softly.

“I am sorry, no!”

“It was about four in the morning, I couldn’t sleep so I stared at the window of my room when I heard you calling my name in near panic. You said there was something on the floor, I checked but there was nothing. I must admit you scared me a little. But then when I asked you what did you see, you were asleep.”

“I am sorry, Holmes, I don’t remember any of it. I suppose I was dreaming . I do that a lot, speaking in my sleep, I mean.”

“I know that. Don’t worry about it. I’ll wait for you downstairs for breakfast.” 

After he left, the doctor opened the window to let the fresh nearly spring air cool the room, he washed and shaved and put on his best country suit and, satisfied by his appeal, he joined Holmes. They both appreciate their breakfast and complimented Wilson again for the wonderful service. 

They spent the morning and most of the afternoon outside; they visited the garden and the wood just outside the house. Watson noticed that, even if nobody had done maintenance works in years, probably, there still was a certain mark in the way the trees had grown; that was even more evident in the garden they walked through the day before: the bushes of roses had grown wild and so the others flowers, among which he could recognized only a few plants of hydrangea; the paths of white gravels designed in the green grass were impinged by weed and dirt; there were drift of autumn leaves here and there; at the edge of the garden that bordered to the wood, many broken branches laid abandoned on the once green grass where the wind had dropped them.

The wood was too entangled, because many young trees had grown up between the older ones; the bigger trees had not been cropped for years and, as a result, they branches had grown wild and many were broken because of the snow, but no one had thought about taking them away. Because of this reasons, it was impossible to walk in the wood, but the little road that started from the main entrance of the house and ended at the gate on the main street was practicable: it was about six hundred feet long; the branches of the bigger trees covered it as to form a natural tunnel that shielded the sun light. 

The tall brick wall that encircled the whole property, combined with the dark atmosphere of the wood, gave to the place an unpleasant sensation of isolation from the rest of the village. Once they arrived at the gate, they found out it was closed, again. Watson mentally took note to ask Wilson the key of the gate, so they could use the main entrance if they wanted to go out to the village, without using the secondary access that was not so comfortable. 

From their new perspective, they could now admire Uncle Horace’s house, that was very well maintained, outside and inside, and that was a big contrast with the garden and the rest of the property: what surprised Watson most was the perfect symmetry in the arrangement of the windows that followed the profile of the pitched roof; each of them was formed by colored small squared panels decorated with figures and landscapes to form unique paintings of lights when the sun hit them. The walls were deep and freshly painted. 

Watson moved his gaze away from the house and noticed, on the far right corner of the property, half covered by plants and half ruined, two small buildings that were probably used as warehouses or as stables. Watson tried to enter one of them, but found the roof had crumbled and the only access was blocked by rubbles. The other one was in better condition and he ventured inside, ignoring Holmes’ protests. The floor was covered with wooden boards; he applied pressure on some of them to verify they would not broke under his weight and, that accomplished, he walked to the far corner of the room where there were old machinery. 

When he was half way, one of the wooden boards he walked on crumpled as he put his foot on it and he fell to the ground, with his right leg blocked in the hole that had formed in the floor, revealing a circular deep well about six feet large and God knows how many feet deep. Watson screamed for help and Holmes hurried at the his side immediately.

“Oh my God, Watson, stay still. I am gonna get you out of here!” 

“I am not moving. Just be quick!”

Watson felt other boards cracking around him and so did Holmes. He had to get Watson out of that trap before he fell in the well. He lowered himself on the floor on his stomach, so to better distribute his weight on the floor, and reached for his friend’s back and shoulders. He noticed the small tremors running through his body and his heavy breath.

“Watson, I am going to pull you towards the door. You just hold on my arms with your hands and try not to fight the movement. Do you understand?” the detective instructed.

“I-I understand… Just be careful, my leg is trapped and I can’t get it out of the hole without crashing more boards…” 

“Alright, you just stay still and while I pull you slowly, you just slide you leg out. Are you ready?”

Watson took a deep breath and nodded. Holmes slid his arms under the doctor’s armpits and got a firm hold on him by clenching his hands together on his chest while Watson gripped the detective’s upper arms with his own hands. He carefully slid on the floor moving as a snake, pulling his friend out from the danger just before a larger portion of the wooden floor collapsed into the well and allowed himself to stand up on his knees only when he reached the door. Watson was still holding on him almost painfully, but he did not care. He pull him up to rest his back on his chest and did not let go. The good doctor was still trembling and his eyes were closed. 

“Watson you’re safe now! You can let go!” he spoke softly.

The doctor opened his eyes and sighed, letting his hands release the hold on Holmes’ arms. 

“I am sorry, Holmes! I almost killed us both!” 

“Not your fault, old boy! Someone should had put an advice at the door that there was a well inside!”

“I shouldn’t had entered the building, I acted like a fool!”

“Now don’t make me say “I told you” because…”

“I know you warned me, Holmes, next time I will listen to you, I swear! Now just let me out of here!”

Holmes watched as his friend made a supreme effort to get up on his own and walk to the main door of the house without his support. He made his way to the sitting room and dropped in the armchair near the fireplace. Holmes poured a glass of brandy and handed it to the doctor, who accepted it gratefully. 

“Are you hurt somewhere, Watson? How is your leg?” he asked.

“I’m fine. Perhaps some bruises, but that’s all.” he replied hoarsely.

Wilson, the butler, who had heard them, knocked lightly on the door and entered the room; he noticed the pallor on Watson’s face and asked if he was feeling alright and if he could do something for them.

The doctor did not answer immediately, he still felt a little shocked by the accident but most of all he felt ashamed at his own awkwardness; Holmes’s concern for him was welcomed, for he was grateful he had such a great friend at his side, but he was someway too shy to admit it. He loathed to be weak and to need help, even from his mate. 

“The doctor had an accident, Wilson. He could had died, but he was lucky…” Holmes explained to the butler in a sharp tone. 

Watson felt sorry for the poor man and tried to lighten the atmosphere. 

“Holmes, there is no need to talk to Wilson like this!” he stated in a firm voice that surprised himself too. 

“If there is something I can do to help you, doctor, it will be my pleasure!” the butler replied, his manner perfectly polite. 

“Thank you, Wilson. I appreciate it. I think Mr. Holmes has some question to ask you, if you don’t mind.” he said, casting a warning look at his friend as to say “Behave yourself!”  
“I will answer all your questions Mr. Holmes.” He assured.

“Thank you, Wilson. I am sorry if I was rude before, I was just concerned about my friend.” He turned to the doctor, who was looking better but was still far from normal. “Watson, do you want us to move in the library, so to not disturb you?” 

Watson felt his cheeks blushing at the gentleness of Holmes’ voice. 

“Thank you, Holmes, but I’d like to be present. Please, Wilson, take a seat.”

The old man positioned himself between the detective and the doctor and waited. Holmes summarized him the events of the accident, the butler looked uncomfortable for the first time but did not interrupt the detective. When he was asked, he assured both of them that before their arrival ha had checked personally that everything had been taken care of in the house and outside and that he remembered perfectly well the sign at the warehouse door that advised not to enter the building. 

He added that someone should had removed the sign, even if he could not find a reason for that act. Holmes asked then about the personnel who worked in the house, for how long they had been there and if he knew if someone was on bad terms with Watson’s uncle (and so he would had wanted to kill Watson, he thought!). Wilson again assured them the people who worked in the house were absolutely trusted and that he knew them for many years now, he could not think of them trying to harm anyone, especially the doctor. He explained that when Watson’s uncle died, if he would not had any living relatives, they would had to go away and to find another work, so they were happy that the doctor had come to stay to the village. 

Watson was worried to hear that, but did not say anything. Apparently satisfied, Holmes thanked the man that left the room silently.

Once they were alone again, Holmes poured another glass of brandy for Watson and one for himself, and went to sit in front of him.

“Drink it, Watson. You’ll feel better!” he suggested.

The doctor complied and actually felt more himself.

“There is something I cannot understand, Holmes. I never told I was going to stay, I went here to see the property and its contents but I absolutely don’t want to leave London. I don’t think I told him so.” 

“You did not.”

“But then… who told him? Winter? And why he would had done it?”

“I don’t have enough elements to answer your questions, my dear. I don’t like that man, Winter, but apparently he has nothing to hide: I made some researches on him before leaving Baker Street and he seems unimpeachable.”

“You made researches on him? Why don’t you tell me?”

“I had no reason to worry you. And it was just routine.”

“Well, now I have a reason to worry. Holmes, do you think someone removed the sign on purpose so to try to make me fall in the well?”

“Watson, Old boy, it seems to me you are on the black book of someone. Unfortunately, I still don’t know who this someone is, but I will find out, don’t worry about it.”  
“What do I have do in the meantime? Stay locked in my room?” 

“Absolutely not. You’ll have to behave as usual, just be sure when you go out not to go alone.”

“You don’t want this mad man to understand you’re tracking him, right?”

“Correct deduction, Watson. Now, why don’t you try to relax in the library while I go out for a while? I need to verify a few things before it gets dark.”

“Do you need any help?”

“It’s better if you stay inside, Watson. It’s safer and if you need something, call Wilson. I think we can trust him.”

“What if there are other traps and you get hurt? I insist I have to come with you!”

“I can take care of myself. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll ask the young servant to come with me. Is that acceptable for you?” 

“Yes. I could not forgive myself if you get hurt because of me.”

Both men stood in silence for some minutes, afraid of showing their emotions. Then Holmes stood up and guided his friend gently to the library. He made sure the windows were properly closed and the room was all clear before leaving with many recommendations. 

And he calls me Mother Hen! Watson thought.

Even if he did not think it was possible, he actually rested and relaxed and enjoyed his reading for the rest of the afternoon. 

§§§

When Holmes returned it was dark. Watson was in his room and his temper was much better. When he heard his friend entering his own room, he did not waste time and opened the door without knocking. 

“Holmes, it’s good to see you again!” he greeted him happily. “Did you find something interesting?”

The detective was surprised and relieved his friend was feeling better and he actually felt better, because they had established a curios empathy between them so Holmes was just happy if Watson was happy.

“No, not really. But now I know every inches of the house and its surroundings. And you, Watson, did you have a good time?”

“Yes, I did not think it was possible but I actually relaxed and read the whole afternoon. There are very interesting books in the library and many documents about the house, in fact I was planning to have a look at some documents I found in the writing table of my uncle tomorrow.”

“That’s a good idea. I will have to ask you also to tell me all do you know about your uncle and your family, I know it won’t be pleasant for you, but it’s necessary I have the complete picture of the case.” 

Watson smiled at him. 

“The case, Holmes?” 

“Well, yes, the case. There is a mystery we have to solve here, old boy. You’re just lucky the great Sherlock Holmes is at your service!” he stated and underlined the concept making a theatrical bow in front of his friend. 

Watson laughed at his exaggerate gesture and thanked him with an applause. 

Watson had to change his plans for the following day because Wilson informed them that Winter, the solicitor, had asked him to go to his office the following morning. Holmes went with him because he had nothing to do at the house and because he needed to ask the solicitor some questions. As expected, he was not so happy about his questioning but was polite enough to give him the information he wanted. He gave Watson details about his property and showed him the location of the lands and woods he mentioned a week ago in Baker Street on a map and gave him the name of a farmer who could help him if he was interested on having a look at them, adding that they were left abandoned for many years and he was sure it was impossible now to know exactly where they were and if they could be someway “useful”. 

When Watson asked him if he had any documents of his uncle in his office, for a second he looked uncomfortable but then handed him a pile of yellowish dusty papers, saying his uncle did not have any interest in them and that they were not particularly important, but of course it was his right to have them. Watson tried again to ask him about the relationship between his father and the defunct but he willingly remained vague on the subject, claiming the fact that he was called to assist his client when he had already closed the relationship with his family and he did not know why he did. 

Luckily the man did not invited them to lunch after having attended his duty. But on their way home they met the local doctor and the vicar outside the inn and they could not avoid their invitation to join them. The two men were thrilled about them, for they were the new entries of the village, and they were also proud to be the first to actually talk to them. The local doctor was very interested in the professional life of Watson and they spent some times talking about professional issues, discussing about the better way to treat certain illnesses, while Holmes and the vicar discussed about the importance of Church and in general of the religion in the life of a little village like Hawkesbury Upton. They had a good time and both men found the company of the villagers relaxing. 

They left the inn three and a half hours later with the intention of going straight home but they were intercepted by the owner of the grocery store, who offered Watson his services, and the holder of the post office, who did the same. Finally they were able to walk home. Watson was amused by the attention they got from the villagers and commented about it to his friend.

“They are as much excited as you were at the idea of coming here, Watson. You will be the main argument of their chattering for a while. And being a doctor, I am sure some young lady would soon like to invite you for tea.” 

The doctor laughed at the idea and let his friend tease him for the rest of the way.

As Holmes had predicted, the following day Watson was busy in public relations, people came to his house to welcome him and to know him personally, offering him help if he needed something. And he could not refuse to join an old lady for tea, because she insisted and he, being a good and caring man, would not displeased her. Watson was relaxed and self confident, the accident of two days ago was forgotten; Holmes was glad there had not been other troubles but he could not avoid to worry about the doctor’s well being and never let him out of his sight. 

On Wednesday morning Watson informed Wilson he was going to spent the day in the library checking his uncle’s documents and asked him to not disturb him. Holmes, satisfied that his friend would be safe in the house, went to meet the farmer the solicitor told them about: he wanted the man to show him the lands outside the village so to clear his mind and to know better his new hunting territory. 

Watson found many interesting documents in the pile Winter gave him: there were property acts, detailed plans of the house and its surroundings and letters written between his father and his uncle before he was born. He decided to read the letters later in the evening alone in his bedroom, because he was sure their content would had roused other memories from his past and the last thing he needed now was to have an emotional break down again in front of his friend. So he started to take notes about the house in his smart handwriting, recording names and dates beginning from the past to end at present days. 

It took him all the morning and half of the afternoon but he was satisfied. When Holmes would had returned he should had interesting things to submit to his attention. Deciding his investigation desk work was finished, he absently rubbed his eyes and stirred in the chair then stood up, leaving his notes and all the documents on the writing table, and headed for the door. 

On his way out of the room, he gave a closer look at some books on the wooden shelves. As usual, his mind was too concentrated on the one he was now holding in his hands to notice that the big and heavy bookshelf behind him had been disanchored from the wall and was crashing on him, the hundreds of volumes it contained hitting him hard on his head and other parts of his body in their fall and actually buried him on the floor. 

Luckily the charged bookshelf was too high and it got jammed in the one on the opposite wall in its fall, saving the doctor’s life. Watson did not have time to ask for help before losing consciousness but Wilson and the other servants in the house heard the loud noise coming from the library and sprang to Watson’s aid. The butler directed the rescue with efficiency with the help of two young servants: they cleared the floor and anchored the now empty shelf to the wall, then he carefully lifted Watson’s unresponsive body in his arms and laid him on the couch of the sitting room. He sent a boy to the doctor’s office to ask him to come immediately, ordered the others to replace the books in their place and waited. 

When the doctor arrived, Watson was still unconscious, a big bump forming on the back of his head and dried blood around his nose and nape. He did not stir during his examination neither he woke up when the butler and the doctor gently took him upstairs in his bedroom, removed his clothes to inspect and clean the many bruises on his body, dressed him in his night dress and laid him on the big bed under the blankets. Holmes made his appearance when the two men were leaving the room and the doctor was relieved to see him. The detective demanded immediately what had happened but the doctor silenced him and guided him to the corridor, so to not disturb Watson.

“It seems your friend had an accident in the library. A bookshelf was not well anchored to the wall and fell down on him. But he was lucky. He has a bump on the back of his head and he lost some blood from a gash on his nape. He is still unconscious but I think he should wake up in some hours. My main concern is the gash on his head that may cause him some troubles: he could be disoriented and confused for a while and he will need your help for a couple of days. Make sure he stays in bed and rest, Mr. Holmes.”

“Can I see him?” he asked, too shocked to argue with the man.

“Of course. I will come tomorrow morning to see how is he doing and if you need me tonight ask Wilson to send someone to my home”

“Thank you, doctor!” 

Wilson took him to the main door and Holmes entered Watson’s bedroom and sat in the chair near him. If not for some bruises and a soft dressing on his head, he seemed asleep quite peacefully. He was totally still and a little pale, but it could had been much worse. Holmes thanked God for his friend’s life and regret himself for not being able to protect him, but he was sure nothing could had happened to him in the safe walls of the his own house. He was clearly wrong. 

At some point Watson mumbled something in his sleep but he finally opened his eyes only a few hours later. Holmes noticed the increasing of this breath and hold his hand, calling his name until he was awake. Watson was confused and found difficult to focus on his face, probably a side effect of the gash on his nape as the doctor said, so the detective explained him where he was and what happened to him. He did not remember. He found very difficult to stay awake, his eyelids were heavy and he was feeling a general fatigue. Holmes reassured him he was safe and he needed to rest. Sleep was, in fact, a very good perspective for the doctor. He had something very important to tell his friend but he just could not remember what exactly. Before closing his eyes again, the fog that enveloped his mind cleared and he knew. 

“Holmes… The writing table… documents…” he murmured in his direction.

“I’ll take care of it. Now get some sleep.” the detective replied softly, misunderstanding his words. Watson, being a military and a meticulous man, hated the disorder. Leaving the writing table in a mess was not typical of him and he was probably apologizing for it, Holmes thought.

“No, no… the documents… I left them… important… need to show you…” he breathed.

“I’ll send someone to take them. Don’t worry. You’ll show me later, Watson.”

The doctor did not reply as sleep claimed him. Holmes then called Wilson and asked him to retrieve the documents Watson was working at but he could not find them. They disappeared. Holmes frustration was growing and making him uncomfortable, but right now his priority was to vigil over his friend. Someone wanted him dead and tried twice to kill him. 

“Watson, I swear to you, I will not let anything happen to you!” he kissed his friend’s hand and prepared himself for a vigil night.

§§§

Watson had a troubled night. Nightmares plagued him but he could not avoid them. Usually in these cases he would had got up for a little walk in the room and a glass of water to return to a peaceful sleep. But his mind was clouded and he could not think straight. He was aware of a gentle voice speaking to him and he held on it to escape his demons but it was just temporary because every time he closed his eyes the images of his mother and father came to life again and he kept reliving the sad days of their illnesses: vivid images of them suffering and accusing him of not being able to help them.

“Oh father, I was just a little boy. What could I do to save her?”

“You simply stood there and watch her dying and now you came to me and it’s the same old story. I should have known you would not had helped me. I could had killed myself a month ago instead of waiting for you. You are not worthy your title!”

“Please, father, if there was something, anything to help you I would do it without hesitation. But there is no cure for your illness. I have already told you that.”

“You came here just to remind me how old I am and how young and healthy you are. You’re telling me I have to accept my fate, that I am old and I must die. Well, I don’t need you anymore, John. Go back to your life and leave me!”

“You’re not yourself, father, please calm down!” 

“I don’t want to repeat myself. Get away from me! Leave me alone and never come back!”

“No, no, I cannot do it, please…”

Then the doctor felt a sharp slap on his face and he opened his eyes startled to find another pair of dark grey eyes looking at him with concern and he felt strong hands gripping his shoulders. For a moment he was disoriented, then he recognized his surroundings and relaxed in Holmes arms and felt his weak body being enfolded in an embrace; he gratefully accepted the comfort his friend was giving him, a caring gesture that made him feel better. He rested his head on Holmes’ shoulder and relaxed at his magic touch. 

“I was dreaming of my father… “ the doctor explained.

“I know”

“He told me I am not worthy my title…”

“Watson, I did not know your father but I am sure he was proud of you. You were at his side when he needed, you did what you could to help him… It was just a dream…”  
Watson sighed and released himself from Holmes’s embrace so to face him. 

“I know… Things are just getting blurred now… I can’t think straight…”

“That’s for the gash on your head… The doctor said you would be confused and disoriented for a while…”

“Holmes! I am a doctor myself, you know!” he replied tiredly.

“How could I had forgotten about it? Believe me, Watson, I am glad he was here when I came back last night…” the detective breathed.

“Did I scare you? I don’t remember anything…”

“You scared me twice since we are here, Watson. You will have to be more careful.” 

Watson visibly paled at his words and Holmes instantly regretted to have spoken aloud. He noticed the perspiration on his forehead and his grimace of pain when he shifted in the bed. He decided it was time for his friend to get some real sleep. His questions should had waited until tomorrow, at least.

“Watson, I think you should try to get some sleep.” he coaxed him, helping him to lay down again. “Do you hurt somewhere?”

“Head hurts but I feel fine. I don’t think I can sleep anymore… I keep dreaming about my family… Ow…” he panted. “God, my back! It hurts… “ he stiffened as the muscles in his back tensed and he gripped Holmes’ shirt fiercely. 

The detective had been informed his friend could had suffered some discomforts so he was ready to help him with some muscle relaxant the local doctor left him just in case. But first he had to calm him down. He carefully rolled his friend on his side and began to massage the charged areas on his back where many purple livid were forming.  
“Why does it hurt, Holmes?” Watson asked his friend in a little voice.

Holmes was not sure how Watson would had reacted, but he would had never won an argue on medical issues with him, so he told him the truth. 

“Because you fell face down on the floor and your back was hit many times by heavy books falling from the shelf. Imagine a waterfall of bricks, that way.”

Holmes felt his friend gasping and shivering at the idea and he could also hear his mind processing the new information. He waited for a few seconds before asking him what he had on his mind.

“But there is no permanent damage?”

“No, no permanent damage. How are you feeling?”

 

Watson breathed a sigh of relief. “A little better, thank you.”

Holmes helped him to lie down again and injected him the muscle relaxant. The doctor did not ask what he was administering him, a clear sign he was in pain. When he returned to sit on the chair near the bed, he noticed his friend was clearly worried and agitated and he instinctively squeezed his hand to offer him his silent comfort. Instead of being reassured, the doctor release his hand from Holmes’ and turn his head on the pillow so to not look at him. Holmes did not know if it was better to drop the matter or insist with him to talk about it. After some minutes, he choose the second option.

“Watson, what’s bothering you? You know you can tell me…” he talked hesitantly. 

“Nothing, I’m fine.” was the doctor’s reply.

“You’re not fine. If you let me in I am sure you’ll feel better…” he tried again with a soft tone.

Watson let out a small sad chuckle but remained silent, clearly avoiding Holmes’ question. He felt so miserable and he would had liked to be alone but he knew his friend was going to vigil over him all night. This inheritance thing had become a nightmare: not only the house and its atmosphere had roused unpleasant memories to him, but someone tried to kill him and he had been so damned fool to not see and not feel the danger coming; if not for Holmes, he could had died on the first day of his stay in the village. He felt useless because he could not take care of himself. He was now completely depending on Holmes. 

He loathed it. In the back of his mind, he knew it was not a burden to him. When Mary was still with him, he had enjoyed her motherly care when he was ill, he did not felt ashamed in front of her. It was something someway natural between two people that had chosen to share their whole life together to not being afraid of showing each other their weaknesses. But with Holmes was completely different. He did not want him to see how scared he was at the moment.  
Please, leave me alone. I can’t do this now.

“Watson, I-I… You should not be alone right now, but I can give you some space if you need… the room is very large, I suppose I can sit by the fireplace if you prefer…” the detective sadly asked him.

Watson did not realized he had spoken aloud and felt guilty for his manner. He certainly did not want to upset his mate nor to hurt him. 

“No, Holmes, please… stay… I just feel … I did not mean to upset you…” he let out in shaky voice he did not recognize as his own. 

Holmes smiled at him and the doctor felt actually better.

“I hate to be so useless and weak, I hate that I am a burden to you… I wish we had stayed in London and I never knew about this house and …” he gasped for breath and his vision blurred. He felt relief flooding him and his last strength giving out as he closed his eyes and he fell asleep.

The next morning the local doctor went to see him. Watson was awake and more alert than the evening before and asked him a thousand questions and agreed with him about the treatment for his injury. He was glad the man gave him the possibility to discuss the subject with him as an equal. He was suggested to take it easy for the next days and so he did. He loathed to be in bed all day with nothing to do, deathly bored, with Holmes hovering over him all the time, but his back was still causing him some discomfort and sitting up or walking was not an option at the moment. 

To Holmes’ dismay, he unconditionally refused to sleep and insisted to discuss with him the events of the last days. The detective was glad to have the opportunity to question him.

“So, Holmes, you said you wanted to question me, I am here and I have all the time!” he said firmly. “And before you ask me, yes I am sure I want it and I feel fine so I don’t see any reason to waste a day of investigation!” 

“As you want, Watson, but we can stop whenever you want if you need to, alright?” 

“Alright, we have a deal. What do you want to know?”

“Can you tell me about your uncle?”

“Well, I know very little about him. He was the older brother of my father. I never met him because they had a bad discussion before I was born and he decided to leave the family. If I remember right, he was married but I never heard my father talking about his wife. And my father never spoke about him.”

“Did he have any children?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Any other relatives?”

“My father had a younger brother but he died when he was 15. And my mother did not have any brothers or sisters. Now my only family is my brother, but it had been years since last time I saw him.” Watson explained, his voice tinged with emotion.

“I am sorry, Watson, this must be hard on you.”

“I am used to live on my own, you know!” he smiled at his friend, who was now looking at him with a mixture of concern and sympathy in his eyes. “What I don’t understand is why someone wants me dead. I mean, I didn’t even know about this place and if not for the solicitor I would had never thought about claiming my inheritance. And it is so far from London…”

Holmes did not answered but remained silent, lost in his thoughts: that meant he was processing all the elements he had to form a general picture of the situation. He did not speak for several long minutes, his expression changing from concern to resolution. He sighed and nodded to himself. 

“Can you remember anything else of your uncle, maybe something your brother told you?”

“I am sorry, no.”

“It’s alright. I would had asked Mycroft to do some researches on him, anyway.”

“But one thing… I don’t know if I remember right, but listen: yesterday I was checking the documents the solicitor gave me, there were properties acts and personal letters and others random sheets… well, I found a reference to a little house in the village with a strange name, kind of Mallow or Mellow, that my uncle bought but was excluded from the inheritance and it is left to the present usufructary and his family until its end. I have never heard about it. I found it strange the solicitor did not tell me about it.”

“It’s a shame we don’t have any clue to locate it without those documents. Did you take notes about it?”

“I am afraid they took them too.”

“Can you tell me what do you remember?”

“About what?”

“The documents. I’d like you to repeat me your notes so I can write them down”

“It was just a list of dates and names mostly, I cannot remember each of them. I don’t think it will be useful.”

“Maybe not, but I want to give it a try.”

Watson sighed and closed his eyes in order to let his mind recollect the information he needed. His photographic memory helped him a lot, for he was able to give his friend almost the complete picture of the property. Holmes was satisfied and thanked him for his effort.

“At least my brain is still working. So, what do we do next? You did not tell me about the lands you visited with the farmer, by the way.”

“It was useless, nothing but trees and bushes.”

They discussed “the case” exploring every possible solution until Wilson entered the room carrying their lunch. Watson ate with appetite and then, despite his effort, he fell asleep. Holmes used that time to clear his mind, certain that it was only a matter of time before they had to face again their enemy. He had to stop him before he got another occasion to hurt Watson. 

§§§

Four days had passed after the second accident, Watson was getting better and actually loathed to wait for something to happen without nothing to do. Holmes needed to go the village to send a telegram to his brother, but he would not trust anyone in the house to deliver it because he feared his message would had been altered, so he left his friend at home with the promise to stay in his bedroom (that he had checked carefully before leaving) and with his revolver ready, just in case. 

He had calculated it would had took him 30 minutes to go to the post office and then come back. When he was half way, he met the local doctor who offered him a lift with his carriage. He accepted without hesitation but when he felt a prick on his neck he understood he had been a fool. His vision blackened and he lost consciousness.  
Meanwhile, at the house, Watson was waiting for Holmes to return but when he did not come back after two hours he knew something was wrong. Unfortunately he had no idea where to search him. 

What would Holmes do in this situation? He would reconsider all the events and see if he had missed something. In the middle of this process, his mind recalled something: when he was in the library checking the documents, he found an envelope with some articles; he had not time to read them so he had put the envelope in the drawer of the writing table. Enthusiastic for his deduction, he went downstairs and entered the library then checked in the drawer and there he found what he was searching for. 

He returned in his bedroom, closed the door and had a look at his treasure: two articles about the death of his uncle’s son and a black and white photograph of two men, his uncle and the local doctor, both several years younger, in front of a little house: on the back of the photo it was written “At the mellow”. He left the house and went directly to the doctor’s house. He was not surprised to see he was waiting for him.

“Doctor Watson, I was not expecting you until a few hours. Mr. Holmes is waiting for you downstairs, if you want to follow me…” he said, revolver in hand. 

“It was you who took the documents away, doctor, am I alright?” Watson asked him.

“Nothing personal. I just did what I was instructed. Now please, someone in waiting for you!” he replied.

When Watson entered the basement, he saw Holmes bound to a chair. Despite he was not in his best appeal, he did not seem hurt and Watson was glad of it. Behind him, an old man with a grim expression on his shriveled face stood: the very much alive Uncle Horace. Watson could detect some similarities with his father in this man and the thought he himself could resemble him made him shiver. 

The doctor pushed him past his friend and forced him to sit on a chair in front of Holmes and bound him with ropes securely. 

“I am glad you joined us, John!” the old man said to him. “So, did you like my home? And the village? Life here is particularly sleepy and an old man like I am has to find some way to entertain himself. I put on a brilliant act, don’t you think?”

Watson did not answered him. He simply was at loss of words. He knew his uncle had had a hard time after his son’s death and he had lost his mind. Better not to upset him with a wrong word. He waited for him to speak again.

“Come on, John, didn’t your father teach you it is not polite to not answer a question?” the old man replied in a venomous tone.

“Leave my father out of this story!” Watson spattered out in a sharp tone, unable to restrain himself.

“Your father is the beginning of this Story… he is a murderer… he killed my son… but he died before I could take revenge on him, so that’s why I came to you. You’ll have to pay for his sin.” he turned his head towards Holmes, who was looking at him with an alarmed expression on his face. “Why don’t you explain your friend what did he do to my boy, John? I am sure he will find your story very interesting…” 

Watson felt his uncle’s bony fingers dig into his shoulder’s skin, having moved to stand behind him. He swallowed hard, not wanting to dig out the past but he had no other choice.

“My father had an accident while he was driving a carriage with my uncle’s son, one of the horses got scared by something on the street, the carriage was turn over and the boy hit his head on the pavement of the street. Dad tried to help him but it was too late. He probably died instantly.” He summarized to his friend and waited for further instructions.

“Dad…” he laughed at the doctor. “Well, your dad, John, went on with his life and left me to grieve over my lost son, he tried to persuade me it wasn’t his fault and asked me to forgive him… how could I even think of forgive him when he used to always invite me to his home just to show me how happy he was with his wife and his son while I was alone in the world? How dare he?”

The old man’s face was just a inch from Watson’s one. The doctor could not even think of breathing in front of him, his rage almost out of control. It was bad enough to be forced to face his uncle and his madness bound to a chair without the possibility to defend himself but the presence of Holmes in the same room, watching him and worrying for his well being, well, this was unbearable. 

If he was going to die, he wished he was alone. He did not want his friend to see him lose his temper and begging for his life, so he recollected all his courage and put on the mask of resolution in front of both men. The local doctor was still in the room, but he paid no attention to him because he seemed totally subdued by his uncle and was simply watching them with horror in his eyes. Watson felt pity for him. 

While these thoughts crossed Watson’s mind, his uncle had waited for him to speak and, because he remained silent, he hit him hard on his head with the back of his hand. He was caught by surprise by the strength the old man still possessed and let out a small cry of pain. Holmes shouted at him to stop but he simply was not listening to anybody because he hit him again and again until he was satisfied to see blood on his face and lips.

“Leave him alone, you psycho… Take me instead of him!” Holmes shouted angrily at him.

The man turned to face him and actually smiled to him.

“Mr. Holmes, I have no intention to touch you. I want you to watch this man you’re so fond of begging for his life, I want you to watch him suffer and pray for his death and when he will be gone, I will leave you to grieve over him and live your life without him. Now, I suggest you to shut up or any other words from you will cost him more suffering. Was I clear?” 

Holmes could not think straight at the moment, his heart being torn apart at the words he had just heard. He nodded to the man and was rewarded with a caress; the sensation of cold sweaty skin on his face made him shiver.

Watson’s head was bent down on his chest. His uncle returned to him with a knife in his hand. He pressed it on his forearm until blood spilled out of the cut. Watson was brave enough to not give him the satisfaction to cry at the pain but his breath was heavy and his whole body tensed. The mad man repeated the process on his other forearm but again the poor doctor endured the torture in silence. Clearly annoyed by the stubbornness of his nephew, he decided to try a more painful spot: he strapped his shirt to reveal his bare shoulders and with his cold fingers he touched the scar over his bad shoulder. Watson understood what he was going to do and could not suppress a small sound of anguish and fear. 

“This is going to hurt, John! But it won’t kill you, I want you to be alive to play some more with you!” he said, a hint of satisfaction in his voice.

He pressed the sharp head of the knife in the centre of the scar and pushed it in the muscle until the blade went clean to the shoulder, then twisted it in the flesh causing a large amount of blood to flow all over Watson’s chest. The poor man tried his best to remain silent but the pain in his shoulder was unbearable and he let out a scream that made Holmes shivering and his uncle laughing. 

When the knife was removed, a larger stream of blood soaked his shirt and trousers. Watson knew with such a wound he had very little possibilities to survive. The pain in his arms, shoulder and his head and the blood loss made him dizzy and he almost passed out, only to be taken aback to the present by other deep cuts the old man inflicted him in other parts of his body. 

He lost consciousness a couple of times. His uncle was kind enough to wait for him to come back before administering his medicine to him. At the end, his voice was rough from screaming and he was ready to beg for his life or for a quick death, despite his intention to be brave for Holmes. When it was clear the poor doctor could not stand it anymore, his uncle put the knife to his throat and yanked Watson’s head backwards then looked directly at Holmes, who was horrified and anguished for his friend. He actually smiles at him and pressed the blade in the tender skin but could not finish his work because a gunshot echoed in the room and the old man fell to ground dead. 

Watson’s head fell on his chest again. Holmes watched as the local doctor quickly cut the ropes that secured Watson to his chair with the bloodied knife and gently held his colleague’s weak body lowering him to the ground, then hurried to free Holmes.

“I need your help, we need to take Watson upstairs where I can treat his injuries. We don’t have much time.” He explained.

Holmes was confused and could not understand why this man was now helping them, but he was right, they could not waste time and so he did as he was instructed. Watson was totally unresponsive at this point, he moaned when the doctor checked his shoulder and cried out for the pain but gave no other sign of consciousness. When the doctor had finished to dress his wounds and gave some morphine, he held his limp hand and spoke to him until he felt, hours later, a weak flexing of Watson’s hand in his and tired blue eyes focusing on him. The detective felt tears in his eyes. 

“It’s alright, Watson, you’re safe. Your uncle is dead, you’re going to be fine” he said, more to his relief than Watson’s.

“Is he dead for sure?” his friend whispered with the little voice he had left.

“Shot in the head. I saw him myself. He will not hurt you anymore!”

“Good. I want to go home…” he rasped weakly before losing consciousness again.

Holmes softly caressed him and held him close. Before devoting himself to his fallen companion, he made sure the doctor would not leave them by cuffing him to the stairs. Many things needed to be cleared. 

§§§

Holmes was anxious to take Watson back to London, where he could had recovered from the ordeal in their safe house in Baker Street, but he was conscious he was not in condition to travel. The local doctor had offered to assist him in his own house but the detective did not trust him, so he insisted for him to be transferred to his uncle’s home and for the doctor to stay with them, until they could finally clear his position. 

For once, he had reversed his position with Watson, for he didn’t know all the details of the puzzle and, as a consequence, he could not have the complete picture of the story. Watson had been able to find him in no time and he was not surprised to see his uncle alive, he surely had discovered something important. Unfortunately, he had not been able to stay awake long enough to explain him: the wound in his shoulder was painful and it caused him a fever, so between the delirium and the heavy medication he had slept for almost three days before becoming aware of his surroundings. 

Holmes had been at his side constantly, helping him to drink when he asked for some water and succeeded also in feeding him a little. Watson was so groggy he did not fight him and accepted his help without complaints. He surely would had been embarrassed at the idea of being fed as a child and Holmes was not going to tell him. In fact, on Thursday, when he woke up rested and more alert, Holmes almost had to restrain him.

“Watson, I don’t want to repeat myself. You’re going to rest and stay in bed until the doctor says you’re strong enough to leave this place and this village!”

“And I am telling you I am fine and I want to get up!”

Holmes watched as his friend struggled to sit up but with his shoulder and arm bandaged together he failed miserably. He fell back on the cushions with a moan. 

“Holmes, would you help me, please?” he asked, his frustration of being in need of support evident in his tone.

“Watson, you’re the most stubborn creature I have ever met! And you are an ugly patient too!” he stated. But he helped his friend to sit up and made sure he was comfortable. 

“I feel better, thank you. I feel at least more human!” Watson explained. “When was the last time did you get some sleep?” he asked then, entering the doctor modality. 

Holmes considered his sincere interest for his well being an improvement of his conditions and he was glad his friend was back. He had been scared to death the first night after his uncle’s real death, the wound on his shoulder did not stop bleeding and the local doctor had a hard time to adjust it, and he lost a lot of blood from the other cuts on his arms and body. The doctor feared he could develop infections where the knife had done the worst damage to the muscle so he cleaned the areas with efficiency, causing Watson to cry out, and carefully stitched the other cuts, assuring they probably would not had left any scars on his skin. 

Holmes hold his breath and kept talking to his fallen friend, desperate to hear his voice again to be sure he was going to survive the ordeal, until he felt his cold hand flexing weakly in his strong one. His feelings for the other man where a mystery to himself too. He would had never thought to care for another living creature the way he cared for his Boswell, and he was actually the only one he cared about, except for his brother of course, but that was another story. And of course he would had never admit his real feelings in front of him. 

“Holmes, did you understand my question?” Watson asked him again, waiting for an answer.

“A couple of days ago. Don’t worry about it!” he said in a casual tone.

Watson made a face but said nothing. He thought he did not want to argue with the detective right now and he was so glad to be finally lucid to talk to him about his discoveries; Holmes too was anxious to know because he seemed uncomfortable and that meant he wanted to ask him but he did not know if it was the right time. The idea of Holmes getting nervous about someone else’s feelings made him smile. 

“Holmes, could you please look in the drawer of the night table? There should be an envelope with some articles inside you should read. I am sure you’ll find them very interesting.” He asked.

That was the signal the detective was waiting for, because he hurried to retrieve the envelop then sat back and started reading. Watson could almost hear his mind working and was extremely happy to see his friend back to his usual self. 

The first article was an excerpt of the local gazette where both Watson’s father and uncle lived and it said.

“Yesterday evening an accident occurred in the streets of our peaceful town. A carriage driven by B. Watson was turned over in the main street. Apparently, as B. Watson himself reported, the horses had been scared by some animal and they got wild, causing him to lose control; when one of the wheels hit a stone, the carriage turned over and crashed. The little boy inside it, Watson’s nephew, was thrown outside and hit his head hard on the pavement. Despite the doctor, who had been called immediately, did his best to help him, he never regain consciousness. The official inquiry declared the driver not responsible for the child’s death.”

The second one reported the same facts, but added some details: it was mentioned that the child’s father had tried to charge the driver, his own brother, with the accuse of homicide but the official inquiry had cleared his position.

Holmes, who had already been told this story, knew these memories were not pleasant for his friend. 

“I am sorry you got caught in this revenge story, Watson.” He simply said.

“I knew my father well enough to understand how painful this memory was to him. When a child dies, you always feel responsible, even if it’s not your fault. And my uncle tormented him making him feel guilty for his loss. His wife died giving birth to his son and he was the only family he had left. He never forgave my father for his “Sin” because he had a wife, had a son and then, when I was born, he lost his mind completely. He left the town and never came back.”

“Well, that’s the reason why he tried to kill you: he wanted his personal revenge. I think we have cleared this point. He pretended to be dead so to make you come into his hunting ground. Winter helped him.”

“ No, I don’t think Winter knew he was still alive. You said it yourself, he is unimpeachable. He simply is an unpleasant person. The only one person who knew was the doctor. You saw him, he was totally subdued by my uncle, he did what he told him to do, he stole the documents Winter gave me because my uncle ordered him to do it. I think he was the one who disanchored the book shelf from the wall in the library and who removed the signal outside the warehouse. He was used to attend the house so Wilson was not surprised to see him after the presumed death of my uncle. When his attempts failed, he drugged you and kidnapped you in order to have me.”

“That makes sense. There’s only one thing I can’t explain: why the doctor should had agreed to help your uncle in his revenge plan?”

“I found a photograph of my uncle and the doctor in front of the doctor’s house. When we met them at the village, I thought I had already seen him but I could not remember where or when. Then when I saw that photograph I understood. Do you remember I told you about a property that was excluded from the inheritance?”

Holmes nodded. 

“Well, when you asked me I could not remember exactly the name of the property… but look at the writing behind the photo…”

Holmes did as instructed and repeat the words aloud “At the Mellow! Watson, Mellow is the name of the doctor’s cottage!”

“Exactly! And I remembered a story my father told me when I was a child, the story of a doctor who had accidentally killed a patient because he did not know he was allergic to a medicine he gave him. Despite the inquiry after the man’s death had cleared the doctor’s position, for it was impossible for him to know about the allergy, his reputation had been destroyed and he had no other choice but going away. Guess where did he go?” 

“Hawkesbury Upton!”

“The doctor and my uncle were close friends but when my uncle’s wife died he put the blame on the doctor. However, when the doctor asked his help, he gave him a house and helped him to be part of the community but he had to pay a high price for this.”

Their dialogue was interrupted by the doctor himself, who had silently entered the room. Watson inhaled sharply at his sight and instinctively searched for Holmes, who reassured him he was no more a threat to him. He relaxed a fraction but did not let go of Holmes’ shirt. 

“I understand you are afraid of me, doctor, but I am not going to hurt you. Not anymore. Not now that your uncle is dead. I stopped him when I thought you had suffered enough of his torture.” The doctor said.

Watson could not believe his ears. Was this man really apologizing for what he made him going through? He felt his anger growing and he would had had launched onto him if he was in better shape. And he was so shocked he could not find words to express his disgust for his actions. 

“Go away!” he hissed.

“I only want to help…”

“I said GO AWAY! LEAVE ME ALONE!” he shouted at him and he went out of the room. Watson slumped onto Holmes, panting. The detective gently hold him until he was calmer. 

“Don’t worry, I will take care of you. You’re safe now!” 

EPILOGUE

Watson and Holmes returned to London the following week, Watson had asked Winter to sell the house. He was very efficient.

The local doctor had been charged and arrested for having made an attempt to Watson’s life. 

Both men were glad to be back to their lives in London. Watson was still recovering from the ordeal but he was getting better and better day by day. With time, they both put this story behind their back.

END


End file.
